


Meanwhile

by tomato_greens



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:04:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomato_greens/pseuds/tomato_greens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the other side of the pond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meanwhile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LassieLowrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LassieLowrider/gifts).



> A teeny drabble originally written on [tumblr](http://tomato-greens.tumblr.com/post/80449574800/yes-hi-i-love-your-fics-can-i-request-things-still).

“My dear, you shouldn’t let it run you down so,” Aziraphale says, tucking into his cheese and pickle with an enthusiasm that is, quite frankly, disgraceful. “Just because the Winchesters are––well, such pests––”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his sunglasses, too thankful to have them back in their familiar place to really consider removing them. He’d started keeping up a glamor on American soil after he’d had an unfortunate run-in with Aaron Burr in 1804 and accidentally led the poor man into a spot of treason. Crowley hasn’t got much use for guilt as a rule, since it only ever leads to Aziraphale’s raised eyebrows and a general feeling of spiritual indigestion, but even so it’s long become habit to shed his usual skin when he pops round the other side of the pond.

“It’s not simply the Winchesters, you know, although they’d be enough,” Crowley explains, releasing his nose only when Aziraphale frowns and rests two fingers on his jaw, miracling away the low, grinding headache Crowley’s been ignoring for weeks now. “The whole system is rucked up over there, and not only demons. Angels, too.”

Aziraphale draws his hand away and picks up his sandwich again. “You really think a group of fanatics like that are going to get anyone’s attention?”

“Oh, I’d say someone noticed,” Crowley mutters darkly.

“I mean real attention,” Aziraphale says, severe. “You know as well as I do that the whole thing was as much a, a ploy as ours turned out to be. A dry run. They don’t know the half of it.”

“You weren’t there. You didn’t feel the earthquakes the way I did, or see Dean Winchester come back from his Hell, or––”

Aziraphale tuts and shakes his head. “What other reason would everything be so very focused in just one country? It didn’t make any sense thirty years ago, and it doesn’t make sense now.”

“But Castiel––”

“Castiel is a force unto himself, but he’s––well, I mean, Crowley, he thinks he’s an archangel and that you’re the king of Hell. He’s a lunatic.”

Crowley steals Aziraphale’s coffee cup and drinks it to the dregs. “I suppose you’re right,” he admits finally, disgruntled. “I can’t believe sodding Zephaniah is pretending to be the Metatron. Who does that?”

Aziraphale lays a soothing hand on Crowley’s arm, as apathetic as any normal member of the Host; weirdly, it’s a comfort. “My dear, why don’t you have a sandwich? It will set you right as rain.”


End file.
